


under blue skies

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is high summer in St. Petersburg, and Yuri tries to grow into his new skin.





	under blue skies

**Author's Note:**

> Originally titled 'blue and sky blue' and posted on Tumblr in March. 
> 
> The original post was tagged '#i am so done i must throw this into the void now and then move on' and '#should probably stop attempting to exorcise my yuri feelings via useless badfic' so make of this what you will.

The first hint of their presence in St. Petersburg is Makkachin’s barking. Then, the pounding of paws against the concrete pavement, and Yuri can barely turn around before he’s bowled over and flat on the ground. 

Makkachin licks his face in exuberant delight. The morning traffic of Tuchkov Bridge is roaring past by his head and apart from her, all he can see is blue sky.

Clear, and cloudless. He wraps his arms around Makkachin’s warm body, and the familiar weight of her settles over him.

“Hey, girl,” he says, running his fingers through her fur as best he can. It’s been so long, and he doesn’t know what to do with all her restless energy anymore. “Hey.”

Then something cold slides through his spine. He comes back to himself, remembers who Makkachin belongs to. It’s been so long, after all. With valiant effort, he nudges her off. He pushes himself to his feet, straightening up to his full height.

“Victor,” he says, schooling his voice into neutrality with a willpower usually reserved for the ice. “Katsudon.”

“Hi, Yurio,” Victor beams, holding out his arms. As though he expects Yuri to come running into them, or something. Beside him, Katsudon is more restrained, but the genial smile on his face still makes Yuri want to puke. Or punch something, or jump into the Malaya Neva.

That last hundred or so metres to the ice rink at Yubileyny — Yuri can’t think of any two people with whom he would like to share the walk with less. But Makkachin is circling around him, and she looks pleased to see him, and truth be told— it has been a while since anyone has looked so pleased to see him.

“Hi,” Yuri says reluctantly.

“Your short program was brilliant,” Victor tells him as they set off. “I was so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Yuri says mechanically. Like how he would respond to the media. Like Victor’s words, in English; so very painfully obvious that it’s all for Katsudon’s benefit.

But English is good. English is unromantic, utilitarian; the words are distant from their meaning. Yuri doesn’t mind this farce.

But _pride_. Of course, that’s an incongruous concept, coming out from Victor’s mouth. Victor, who choreographed Yuri’s program, but then cut off all ties to him. Victor, who only ever had confidence in his own triumph, and no one else’s. Victor, who cared for no one, until he cared for someone.

When Yuri starts paying attention again, Victor is speaking. “… next season?” he finishes.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“Victor was asking if you’d like him to choreograph your programs for the next season,” Katsudon says. “You guys should be focusing on Nationals for now, if you ask me, but…”

“You’re very exciting,” Victor says. Yuri can hear the undercurrent of thrill in his voice. An architect with a vision. “Truly once-in-a-generation,” and at this Yuri glances over to Katsudon, who is still smiling his stupid smile, “and I can make you into something even more extraordinary.”

Yuri takes a careful breath. Holds it, lets it out. Checks himself for the flash of recklessness which flares up inside him. “I’ll have to speak to Yakov and Lilia,” he says.

Yuri watches as Victor blinks in surprise at Lilia’s name. An unanticipated obstacle, when he is used to getting his way.

“Well, let me know,” Victor says finally. “It won’t be a bother at all.”

Yuri has to laugh at that.

*

Yuri knows that Katsudon takes Makkachin out running every morning. Some time after, Victor would turn up at Lilia’s place.

“We can meet Yuuri on the Tuchkov,” Victor would explain earnestly, as though it is a very reasonable suggestion, and Lilia’s fingernails would dig deeper into the skin of Yuri’s shoulder.

“Yuri has practice on the barre this morning,” she would say, looming behind him. Her eyebrows would be arched; unimpressed. Frosty and aloof.

Yuri’s cat would twine around his legs, staring at Victor.

And Victor would shrug easily, spirits apparently undampened, but Yuri would catch the shimmer of something sharp in his eyes. “Is that so? Then, I’ll see you at practice, Yurio. Don’t be late.”

Yuri has not been late to a single practice session ever since Hasetsu. He also knows that he does not have barre practice in his schedule, at least not in the morning, but he lets Lilia fuss over him and usher him into the studio.

One day, a week before Nationals, she says: “You are my prima ballerina. I will not have your name tarnished.”

He is on his twenty-ninth fouetté turn. At her words, he falters slightly. He regains his balance, but the damage is done.

“Stop.” Lilia’s voice echoes in the large room. “Start over. Thirty-two. Go.”

It’s agony on his feet, but he knows better than to protest. His calves burn, but it’s a reassuring feeling, in a perverse way. Familiar, at least. When he is finished, Lilia hands him a towel.

“Your name is Yuri Plisetsky,” she tells him, “and I will not have an arrogant little upstart make you into someone you are not.”

“What,” he says, and she frowns at his lack of eloquence.

“I’m not a fool,” Lilia says. “Victor Nikiforov thinks that he can steal you now from beneath my nose. What I want to know is where he was when I first took you in.”

“Hasetsu.” Yuri offers the obvious answer, one that he categorically knows that Lilia is not looking for. She frowns at him harder.

“Of course,” she says. “Chasing the skirt of a fellow skater, rather than fulfilling a promise. I remember, now. And in Moscow, he waxed poetic about your competitor, before using you to divert media attention. Then he asked for your coach.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s see. Barcelona. I found finger marks on your jaw, and you would not tell me what had happened.” She places her own hand there now, stroking over the bone, feather-light. And then her fingers push from under his chin, tilting his head up. A facsimile of their first meeting.

Her other hand, she brings to cup his cheek.

“You’re mine, Yuri Plisetsky,” she says. “I wouldn’t let anyone take you from me.”

*

Yuri dresses in his running gear. Lilia glances at him from her cup of tea, takes in his outfit, and nods at the dining table.

“Breakfast before you go.” Spoken as an order.

A plateful of cottage cheese dumplings, with a pot of sour cream by its side.

“I can’t, I’m going for a run,” he says, and Lilia’s mouth pinches. They make eye contact, and he wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat.

Lilia breaks the silence. “Ballet at six o’clock. I’ll see you then.”

It’s only around three kilometres to Tuchkov Bridge. With his hands tucked into the pockets of his bulky coat, Victor is waiting there already. He brightens at the sight of Yuri.

“What do you want from me?” Yuri cuts in, before Victor can use that dreaded nickname. He can still hear Lilia in his head: _Your name is Yuri Plisetsky._ It’s true; sometimes it’s easy to forget that. Especially when he is on the ice, a marionette to someone else’s choreography.

Victor blinks slowly before his expression clears, and he smiles a smile which leaves his eyes flat. Yuri knows that, because he’s looking for it.

“Oh,” Victor says, in insincere surprise. “Only what it says on the tin.”

“You have a lot of nerve.”

Victor’s smile spreads wider. “Of course I do.”

“Why now?” Yuri spits out the syllables, staccato.

“I want your body, your heart and your soul,” Victor says. He shrugs; an easy motion. “That will be my contract with you. Tell me, what could you offer me before?”

“I would have given you anything,” Yuri has to make sure that his voice doesn’t crack, “just for a program. Anything. And you—”

“I didn’t see the value in it.” Victor’s voice is gentle. “What could I have gained in helping my future rival? That is my highest compliment, by the way.”

“But you—” Yuri growls inarticulately because the alternative is unbearable; he will jump into the river itself if the hotness in his throat spills out. He glares at the paint-strokes of white cloud in the sky. If he stays still, he can see their inexorably slow progress across the blue. “You— I trusted you.”

“And you still can.” Something in Victor’s eyes softens minutely. “I’m here to tell you that you can trust me to sculpt you into the greatest skater that the world has ever seen. I promise.”

“Because your time is running out,” Yuri says.

“Right,” Victor agrees. “I’m running on borrowed time, but you’re only just entering into the dawn of a new era. You could do anything. And I want to be a part of that.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“Of course I do.”

“Don’t want to waste your time on, y’know, not being a dick?”

“Since when have you ever worried your pretty head about that,” Victor shoots back. Yuri feels something red-hot rise up through his chest, an entirely different kind of hotness this time, and he tries to tamp it down. To give himself something to focus on, he glances at his phone; sees the time, and it’s earlier than his usual arrival at the rink.

“You know,” Victor suddenly grins, “Yuuri usually takes Makkachin in the mornings but if you like, you can take her in the evenings?”

Yuri does not return his smile. “I probably can’t,” Yuri says, although not entirely without regret.

“Well, I suppose we can work something out with Yuuri,” Victor says, and then, slower, “You liked Makkachin before. You haven’t seen her at all after Hot Springs on Ice, have you?”

As if summoned by his name, Katsudon appears at the junction then. Victor springs up, waving enthusiastically. Makkachin is running by Katsudon’s side and she bounds up to Yuri.

Yuri braces himself. He can just about withstand her weight when she comes flying.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs, Yurio,” Katsudon says in English, which is quite possibly the stupidest thing that Yuri has heard all month.

“They have an understanding,” Victor tells Katsudon. “Makkachin grew on him.”

“Ah, sorry for monopolising her, then, Yurio. I’m sure you would—”

They say that pets reflect their owners. For as long as Yuri has known him, Makkachin has been a virtual extension of Victor. She has Victor’s fickleness, but she also has his startling charm, sliding behind Yuri’s defenses in those first few months in St. Petersburg. Animals are more appealing when people only want to tear you apart.

But while spending time with someone who doubts you will make you doubt yourself, Makkachin doesn’t have the words to express such sentiments. Maybe that’s the distinction between Victor and her.

“Whatever,” Yuri snaps. “I don’t care.” He leans down to scratch Makkachin in silent apology but she moves away, towards Victor.

“Look, you hurt her, Yuri,” Victor says reproachfully.

“Whatever,” Yuri says again. He turns away. The sun is bright on the horizon, and his on-ice session starts in half an hour, still.

When he arrives at the rink, there is a dumplings-filled thermos flask waiting for him.

*

Later that day, he gives some of those cottage cheese dumplings to Makkachin as a peace offering. She accepts them graciously with a few barks and drags him in the opposite direction to Tuchkov Bridge. Yuri gives in because he is weak.

Jogging on concrete sidewalks along two-lane streets, turning into a road whose buildings taper into utilitarian practicality. The pastel colours are soon replaced by off-whites and dirty creams, and the footpaths narrow.

There are graffiti-emblazoned walls, ugly and comforting. Alive, under the sunlight. Far removed from the fairytale perfection of touristy-St. Petersburg, cotton-candy architecture harking back to the grandeur of eras past.

But Yuri’s never found the past worth looking back on. He’s always been glad to leave it all behind, and he will only let himself move forward — but to what?

Victor’s legacy, to eventually burn out at the peak of his career, uninspired and disillusioned? To coach younger skaters, who will only seek to surpass his own achievements? To rejoice in others’ gold medals as if they are his own, swallowing the regrets of what-could-have-been?

There aren’t that many people in the park. Yuri doesn’t allow himself any reprieve, just as Makkachin doesn’t allow him any reprieve. She bounds forwards into the distance, used to a running partner who did not tire so easily.

Yuri has no choice but to follow.

And maybe this is how it is, how it can only be. Following someone else’s path, someone else’s breadcrumbs.

Or maybe it’s a paved road, asphalt and street signs and all, the well-oiled machine of Russian state sport. Plucking youthful promise from obscurity and processing fresh talent through the supply chain. Grinding and polishing, until all that remains is marble-cold perfection.

If so, he’s not humble enough to not know that he’s the magnum opus of recent years.

And maybe for him it’s just this: running under blue skies to nowhere, to anywhere. Caught in the moment; too exhausted to be thinking ahead. The pounding in his heart, the burning in his chest, what it means to feel alive when it is his due to perform superhuman feats. That for each impossible quadruple jump are a million breaths inhaled differently; that for all his tolerance to pain, he can still feel dizzy with lack of oxygen.

Yuri doesn’t mind this, not exactly. He feels the slow drag of air through his lungs, each breath carefully measured, until they aren’t.

A lake appears amongst the trees, and Makkachin veers off the trail towards it with several happy yelps. Yuri lets her go. He remembers to stretch himself out before collapsing on the grass, staring up at the sky for a very long time.

When Makkachin comes back, he runs his fingers through her fur, rubbing over her ears.

It feels achingly familiar; a shadow of those early St. Petersburg days. “Makkachin’s good with lonely people,” Victor had told him once, and all Yuri had thought at the time was that she didn’t really suit Victor that well, then.

There’s an inexplicable tiredness that’s in Yuri, something that sinks into his bones more than the effects of the physical exercise.

*

Makkachin knows that Victor’s leaving her again, surely. Her undisguised adoration of her owner is almost sickening. Yuri looks away as Victor murmurs to her in Russian.

When Makkachin turns to Yuri, he smirks at her.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “You’re looking at the next national champion. I’ll bring back the gold medal for you, girl.” She barks excitedly at his cocky tone and he lets out a startled laugh as she jumps into his arms.

“You’ve got some nerve, Yura,” Victor exclaims in mock offence.

Yuri lets Makkachin go, back to the side of Victor’s neighbour, his regular dog-sitter. Outside, Yakov and Lilia are in a cab bound for the airport, where their plane will take them to Sochi, and then another cab will take them to their hotel. Three days later, the Russian Figure Skating Championships will commence, and Yuri, well. He has never won the event before, but he does not make empty promises.

The sky is still dark outside; the sun will peek over the horizon when they’re still on the plane. It’ll be a nice view. It’s a singular experience: looking down from the top of the world.

_You’ve got some nerve._

Yuri turns back to Victor.

“Of course I do,” he says, and he means it.


End file.
